


Where the Lovelight Gleams

by thegraytigress



Series: Home for the Holidays [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Getting Together, Holidays, M/M, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Romance, Steve Rogers Feels, Tony Stark Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-01 21:43:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17251919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegraytigress/pseuds/thegraytigress
Summary: After getting Sam home for the holidays, Steve finds out his friend arranged the same gift for him.  However, going home means facing Tony, which he hasn't done since everything fell apart in Siberia.  It's time to confront his feelings and finally tell the truth.





	Where the Lovelight Gleams

**Author's Note:**

> This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended. Please don't repost this story to other archives or websites.
> 
>  **RATING:** T (for language, adult situations)
> 
>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Happy New Year, everyone! I hope you all enjoy part two of my little holiday saga. Where the first fic was gen and focused on Sam and Steve's friendship, this one is Steve/Tony. It does cover some of the unresolved feelings/angst from _Civil War_ , but there's a happy ending, of course. This is holiday fun, after all. You don't need to read the first part for this to make sense, but it might help.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading, and for all your support over the last year!

There are times when Steve really misses home.

Not that he’s had a home, not since waking up in the 21st century.  He’s had places where he’s bathed and slept, places where he’s put his clothes and done his laundry and occasionally cooked a meal, places where he’s tried to relax and once or twice thought about having a life.  The apartment SHIELD gave him in Brooklyn and the nicer one they afforded him in Washington DC where he stayed for a couple years.  Avengers Tower in New York City.  And finally the Avengers Complex in upstate New York.

That last one is the closest he’s come to calling anywhere home.  It isn’t because of the place, though it’s certainly among the nicest and most luxurious he’s ever known with every amenity one could possibly want tied into the best tactical and combat training systems on the planet.  It isn’t because of the sleek, modern, minimalist décor, which Steve finds really appealing despite how different it is from what he’s seen before.  It isn’t because of any of that.

It’s because of the people.

It’s especially because of Tony.

Steve’s dreaming about him again.   _Again._   They’re in the common room of the complex.  It’s after a mission maybe?  Steve’s not sure.  It doesn’t matter.  The point is they’re there together, sitting side by side on one of the couches, and Tony’s happy.  They’re talking about something, maybe about the team and maybe not, and again it doesn’t matter because Tony’s laughing.  Tony’s smiling the way he used to, the way he always did before Sokovia and Ultron.  It’s the smile that lights up his eyes, the best smile, and Steve can’t stop staring at them.  Tony’s eyes are so richly brown, so sharp and smart, so infinitely deep.  If Tony notices him watching, he doesn’t say anything.  In fact, he’s leaning closer, practically touching Steve, and Steve’s nerves soar with how good that is.  If he didn’t know that Tony was in a relationship with Pepper, he’d think the other man’s flirting with him.

And, God, it feels good.

The dream goes on.  They talk and talk, laugh and lean closer together, until the hours drag on and Tony’s drifting off to sleep beside him.  Tony’s dropping his head to Steve’s shoulder, and when Steve looks down, when he takes a breath, Tony saturates his senses.  The thick lushness of his hair and the smell of his cologne and the warmth of his body.  How right it is to have him there, to  _be there_ , to look over him while he sleeps.  How sweet that vulnerability is, that  _trust_.

Of course, in the back of his mind, Steve knows this isn’t real.  He knows he’s not really back there, and Tony isn’t really with him.  It’s a bit like torture to immerse himself so completely in a lie like this, with the serum powering such vivid details, but he can’t help himself.  He could call it ritual penance, or at least some sort of compulsory torture, since he’s had dreams like this over and over since Siberia.  Tony on the couch with him.  Tony at his side on the battlefield, powerful and impressive.  Tony hunched over his table in his workshop with his tools all around him, his eyes intent on whatever he’s fixing.  Tony eating burgers and fries and laughing at something Thor’s saying.  Tony arguing, tongue harsh and eyes fiery.  Tony everywhere, in everything that means anything.  Steve dreams about him all the time.

Tony watching him in horror, scared Steve will actually kill him.

This dream, though…  It’s somehow a little different.  It’s softer, more precious.  It’s rarer, purer, a gift all its own, and Steve lets himself sink into it.  He lets himself imagine a Christmas tree in the common room.  It’d be huge, because Tony never spares any expense, and ornately decorated, though not garishly because Tony has impeccable taste.  It’d be all pretty white lights and silver tinsel and glimmering, icy ornaments.  And there’d be garland around the room, and the lamps would be low, and there’d be gifts under the tree and the smell of coffee and Tony clutching him in his sleep, and Steve will know – in his bones and in his brain and in his heart and soul – that this is where he belongs.   _This_  is home.

_If only in my dreams._

Dreams don’t last.  They never do, no matter how much he wants them to.  There’s nothing specific that pulls him out of this one, just that quiet, persistent truth inside:  _this isn’t real._   Steve’s opening his eyes before he’s ready to, and when he does, he sees a beige ceiling and a slowly rotating fan.  Immediately he knows where he is; the serum doesn’t let him be disorientated, even when he wants to be.  This is Sam’s room at his old house in New Orleans.  Because they’re back in the United States.  Because Sam’s home.

Because, despite their fugitive status, Steve got Sam home in time for Christmas.  It seemed simple enough when Steve thought it up.  It was obvious Sam was really suffering with homesickness over Thanksgiving, and Steve couldn’t stand it.  Sam deserves better than sharing a few extra MREs and a dusty bottle of wine with Steve when he should be home with his family, so Steve talked to Nat, and Nat put him in contact with Fury, and Fury arranged sneaking them across the border.  Steve set the whole thing up: the fake mission to throw Sam off the scent of what this really was, the safehouse in Mexico, Fury and Hill waiting to drive them to Louisiana…  He knew it was a risk, of course.  Fury told him.  Nat told him.  Ross was hunting them, trying to capture them, Steve in particular.  The Secretary of State has the influence, money, and resources to get what he wants, and he wants Steve, most likely for the super soldier serum he failed in recreating years ago.  Entering the United States was foolhardy at best, insane at worst. 

But they did.  Barely.  The whole thing was nothing short of disaster, resulting in a wild car chase with Ross’ thugs out in the Mexican desert, sneaking into a border town where they hardly stayed ahead of their enemies, and a horrific, dangerous, nerve-wracking attempt to get across the border that nearly ended in his and Sam’s arrest by the US CBP.  The two of them very nearly spent Christmas in prison (and it could have been much worse if Ross got them, like incarceration in the Raft without trial or anyone really knowing what happened).  They didn’t, though.  Sam saw them through everything that went wrong.  Steve wasn’t much help at the time, well, because he got his stupid ass shot, as Sam put it.

Steve sighs and rolls onto his back, dropping a hand to his abdomen where the wounds were.  Thanks to some emergency surgery and the serum, the injuries are nearly gone.  The serious damage has been reduced to tender splotches in the matter of a couple days.  Steve knows he’s lucky, so damn  _lucky_ , that Sam was able to get them out of the situation into which they blundered.  Furthermore, he’s embarrassed, to say the least.  Technically it’s not his fault; there’s no way he could have known that Ross would track them from Europe to the Mexico and sic a company of black ops soldiers on them.  But that was definitely a possibility, and he ignored the risks, put up blinders to everything other than getting Sam home, and he nearly got them both killed.

Sam’s been ridiculously grateful, however, ribbing Steve about the whole mess but in a loving way.  He knows Steve’s ashamed, and he’s liberally poking fun while taking pity, like good buddies do.  If Sam was mad at all about the fiasco, that died fast and he’s been nothing but thrilled to be home.  Plus he didn’t let Steve wander off Christmas Eve with nowhere to go and nothing to do, which he should have.  No, in typical Sam fashion, he insisted Steve stay with him and his mother, practically dragging him into their little home in New Orleans, and there he’s been for a couple days now.

It’s been downright wonderful.  Sam’s mother, bless her heart, is an amazing woman.  Of course she would be, considering the sort of man her son is.  She’s so generous, kind, loyal, but she takes no nonsense and cuts through bullshit like a warm knife through butter.  She immediately let Steve into her home like he’s a long lost son or some such, and Steve liked her from the moment he met her.  She’s a powerhouse (despite her petite form) and one hell of a cook.  She promised from the get-go that she would feed them, almost instantly discovering that Steve’s “thin as a string bean and in desperate need of Southern lovin’” and shoving food in front of him in a constant stream.  Steve has to admit that he’s never eaten so well, not that he knows what he’s eating half the time.  It all tastes amazing regardless, and it seems like there’s always something cooking.

Like right now. Steve can smell breakfast, even though the kitchen is down the hall quite a bit from Sam’s old room where Sam insisted he sleep. He can hear it, too, the crackle of bacon hitting a hot pan and the  _clink_ _clink_  of a fork striking the side of a bowl as something’s being mixed. The soft, sucking thud of the refrigerator door opening and closing. Even the drop of coffee into a pot. That he smells the most, though the aroma of frying meat and something very sweet getting warm is just as enticing. His stomach gurgles, and he decides to put away his emotions and regrets and roll out of bed.

His bare feet hit the floor, and he wriggles them against Sam’s old rug as he looks around. Sam’s old room doesn’t look uninhabited or empty despite the fact that Sam’s been gone from this house for at least twenty years. A lot of his possessions are missing, but a few high school and college sports trophies are still lined up on the shelves around the bed.  They look recently dusted, gleaming in the faint early morning light. There are also a few old posters and pictures on the wall, bands from the 1980s and 90s that Steve doesn’t particularly recognize.  Books from high school and college are organized on a bookcase beside an old and well-used desk.  The room looks like Sam, simple and straightforward but not shy about what he likes, knows, and values.

Steve stretches and then grimaces a bit when the sore places inside twinge.  Then he makes Sam’s single bed and pads quietly to the door.  Before he even touches the knob, he hears someone on the other side.  “There’s breakfast waitin’,” comes Sam’s mother’s voice through the door.  “Come on out when ya ready.”

Steve grins faintly.  Sam told him their first night there that his mother is like a hawk; nothing moves in her little house without her knowing about it.  Made sneaking out during his teenage years a real pain, Sam said.  Steve waits until he hears her head back to the kitchen before gathering up his jeans and a shirt he’s borrowing from Sam.

“Don’t gotta get dressed neither!”

Smiling more fully, Steve shakes his head.  He slides his jeans on over his boxers and puts a shirt on.  Sam’s mother is really into complete and all-encompassing hospitality, telling countless times Steve over the past couple days to do whatever he wants, eat whatever he wants, that their home is his home.  It’s really sweet how easily she’s accepted his impromptu appearance into their lives, but his own mother taught him better than to wear only his underwear to breakfast.

He heads out of the bedroom and walks silently down to the kitchen.  He already knows where the old floors creak and thus where not to step; it’s a force of habit after six months spent on the run (and years before that spent in special ops combat).  One of the reasons he didn’t want to stay is his fear that he’ll bring heat on Sam’s family (not that Sam doesn’t himself, but Steve’s a more valuable prisoner and obviously more recognizable, if their adventure crossing the border is any indication).  Sam quickly told him to give it a rest with that with that crap.  Not that Steve can give anything a rest anymore.

At any rate, he creeps out to the kitchen from where all the delicious smells are emanating.  On the way, he passes through the living room and is a little surprised to see Sam still asleep on the couch.  Sam’s been sleeping a lot since getting home, which makes sense and is absolutely fine in Steve’s book.  That’s the point of this, after all, so that Sam can get some rest with his family, in his home, without the weight of their difficult lives crushing him.  He’s utterly passed out right now, sprawled on a couch that’s a little too small and snoring lightly.  Steve smiles and pauses to reach down and grab the blanket that’s slipped to the floor.  He lays that over Sam carefully, not wanting to disturb him, before heading onward.

Sam’s mother is at the stove, stirring a pot with a couple more pans around her on the heat and sizzling.  She’s already dressed impeccably in tan slacks and a cream blouse.  An apron is tied neatly around her.  Her hair’s styled, and her make-up is simple but very noticeable.  She’s also already got a plate on the table for him, and she turns the second he steps past the threshold of the door.  “Hungry, sugar?”

 _Sugar.  Baby.  Child._   Sam’s mother has a nickname for every conversation, and they’re all like that.  It’s a little strange to Steve, whose own mother was never so big on endearments (not that she didn’t express her love – no, Sarah Rogers was a beautiful, affectionate woman, but she only ever called her son Steve or “sunshine boy” on occasion, but mostly Steve).  Sam’s mother lavishes her praise and sweet words, utterly generous with it like she is with food and hugs and her home.  She smiles now.  “Got grits and gravy comin’.  You can start with the eggs.”

She says that like there are just eggs on the plate at the table when in fact the fried eggs are joined by homemade hash browns.  There’s a plate beside them with beignets (Sam longingly talked about those during their pathetic, miserable Thanksgiving meal, claiming there’s nothing like them, and he’s absolutely right.  Steve has quickly discovered he’ll devour beignets no matter which way they come) and another with what looks like French toast.  A couple of jars of jam are there, strawberry, blackberry, and raspberry, and they are clearly homemade, too.  Steve takes a biscuit from one of the trays and starts lathering strawberry jam onto it.  Sam’s mother watches him a moment, clearly making sure he’s putting an acceptable (and egregious) amount on it.  Then she nods and goes back to her pots.

Steve smiles and digs in.  Back in the day, a feast of this size was a dream.  He’s gotten used to the fact that there’s food everywhere nowadays (well, everywhere here; when they’re on the other side of the world and hiding from the law, it’s not so easy to come by).  Even still, indulging has never come easy to him. It’s pretty obvious Sam’s mother gets a great deal of satisfaction, validation, and enjoyment out of seeing him and Sam eat her food, so that’s been a rather compelling reason to battle habits engrained into him by austerity and poverty.  It doesn’t hurt that everything’s been so delicious, too.  The po’boy should be a national treasure in his humble opinion.  And these little tangerine things…  Satsumas, Sam called them yesterday.  Steve finishes his biscuit and plucks one from the bowl in the center of the table.  They’s so good, sweet and juicy.  He peels it, carefully not to squish it.

But he does anyway when Sam’s mother speaks.  “Why are you here?” The fruit squirts all over him.  Horrified, Steve looks down.  It’s ridiculous, the mess he just made.  He fumbles for a napkin, his fingers full of sticky mush.  Pathetically he tries to clean himself up.

“Aw, honey.”  A wet paper towel is passed his way.  Steve raises his gaze again and finds she’s watching him with nothing but sympathy.  “You got no cause to be upset.  I’m not accusing you of anything.  I just got you here alone for the first time since you came, and I wanted to ask.  I’ve been curious.”

He knows that’s genuine, but it doesn’t do much to assuage his surprise or his pain.  “Sorry, ma’am,” he replies quietly.

Softly she smiles.  “How many times I gotta tell you to call me Arleen?”

Steve feels his cheeks burn even hotter.  “Sorry, Mrs. Wil – I mean, Arleen.”  He gives what’s probably a stupid grin.  “Force of habit.”

“Uh-huh,” she says.  She takes the mangled fruit and paper towel after Steve wipes his fingers clean.  “Seems to me you have a few of those.”

Steve sits quietly a moment, knowing he shouldn’t go down this road.  After all, Sam’s mother – Arleen – is essentially a stranger to him.  Sure, she’s been sweet and welcoming these last two days, having him in their house on Christmas, allowing him to essentially be more than a guest and even part of the family in a sense for how inclusive it’s all been.  Again, she’s fed him, same as Sam, and hugged him and even bought him a present (a new leather jacket, a really nice one, that she must have rushed out to buy Christmas Eve after Steve fell asleep early due to his still healing wounds and exhaustion).  She’s been like a mother to him, just in these two days.

Which is why he wants to ask, why he feels almost compelled to.  “What do you mean?”

She gives him a knowing look and picks up her wooden spoon to resume stirring her pot.  “Bad habits.  Like taking less than you need.”

The urge to argue, to defend himself, really can’t be denied.  “I don’t–”

“You do,” Arleen gently interrupts.  “Don’t lie to me.  Even now I can tell you’re hungry enough to eat a horse, but you’re holding back like you’re worried Sam won’t get his.  He will, and he told me you need more because you’re Captain America, and he told me you been starving for months and giving up your portions on top of that, so eat.”  Down comes another plate, this one loaded with grits and steaming gravy and more biscuits and more eggs.  

Steve grimaces, caught between being embarrassed and annoyed.  “Sam talks too much.”

Arleen chuckles.  She pours him a cup of orange juice (freshly squeezed – she really spared no effort on this meal) and then a cup of coffee.  “Sure does,” she agrees, setting those down as well before turning off her stove and moving her pots to her sink.  Once she’s through getting everything settled and soaking, she acquires a steaming mug of her own and sits across from Steve at the table.

Steve feels even more uncomfortable, but there’s no judgement in her eyes.  He eats a little under her sharp gaze.  She waits a moment and then says, “He also told me you have a nasty habit of taking hits meant for other people.  And ignoring things that are hurtin’ you.  And puttin’ on a brave face all the time.  And tellin’ everyone you’re fine when you ain’t.  And carryin’ the whole world on your shoulders.”

It’s hard not to get angry or at the very least annoyed.  Arleen knows what happened during Steve’s debacle of a surprise gift in getting Sam here.  It was impossible to hide with Steve so tired, sore, and covered in bandages under his clothes that first night.  Arleen doesn’t seem respect much privacy (or leave stones unturned when it comes to her search for information) so if Sam didn’t come right out and explain, she likely worked it out of him.  Of course, Sam may have just explained.  Sam’s not too keen on Steve doing what he does, either.

Regardless, Steve’s not interested in a lecture about anything.  Maybe that’s what she really means about getting him alone to talk, prying into his secrets and habits to show him the err in his ways.  Yes, he lost Bucky again.  Yes, he lost the closest thing to a home that he’s had in forever.  He lost his country, his reputation, his place and purpose.  He lost his team.  He lost his shield.  That’s not quite right.  He was forced to give up his shield because that shield was coming to symbolize  _nothing_ he valued.

And he lost Tony.

So if he’s been a tad protective of the few things he has left, the couple people keeping him sane in a world that’s starting not to make sense, he thinks it’s warranted, no matter the cost to him.  But what he finally says is: “it’s my fault.”

It gets quiet.  Steve feels small, and he doesn’t know why.  He’s spooning around the grits but making no effort to eat them.  It’s obvious she’s waiting (patiently) for him to continue, to explain himself.  He does.  “What happened.  The fact that Sam’s so far from you.  The fact that the Avengers fell apart.  It’s all my fault.”

Arleen gives a small, knowing smile.  “He said you’d say that.”

Steve lowers his head some.  The ever-present ache inside that he’s blissfully managed to ignore since coming here comes back quickly.  “Doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

“What does it matter if it is?” Arleen questions.  Steve heaves a sigh and sinks in his chair.  It matters.  It matters a lot.  It’s what drives him now.  Guilt.  Guilt over what HYDRA did to Bucky, over letting Bucky fall seventy years ago to begin with.  Guilt over Sokovia, over Lagos, over the people he’s failed to protect.  Guilt over the Accords coming into play and the Avengers shattering on his watch.  Guilt over not letting himself see the truth in what the Winter Soldier did to Tony’s parents.  Guilt for hurting Tony, for fighting with Tony, for letting the situation escalate so drastically.

Guilt over walking away.

The logical part of his mind knows none of that was his fault.  Not really and not strictly.  Tony’s to blame, too.  They’re all to blame.  Most of all, fate and a madman created a situation in which there was no way out, no way to fix what was breaking, no way to keep them together.  Steve’s been holding himself to standards that are impossible and utterly irrational, and he’s well aware of just how stupid and foolish that is.  He can’t let it go, though, and the wounds on his heart and in his soul are still bleeding, even months later.  The serum always heals his body so fast, erasing even the deadliest of wounds like they’re nothing at all, but it can’t heal this.

Steve’s thoughts get away from him.  It’s the feeling of Arleen’s eyes on him that pulls him from his reverie, and he looks up at her again to see her watching him and sipping her coffee.  She sets her cup down, wrapping slender, callused, slightly weathered fingers around the porcelain.  “I don’t know you at all,” she admits after a beat, “but a couple things are glaringly obvious, child.  You’re beating yourself up, punishing yourself I think, for crimes you didn’t commit.”

“With all due respect,” Steve manages, “you have no idea what I did.”  He can still feel the metal of Iron Man’s face plate in his hand, still taste the blood from the busted up ribs he had, still feel his heart pounding and his body shaking.  Still see the horror in Tony’s eyes.

Arleen’s not fazed in the slightest.  “I know you’re a hero.”

“No, not anymore–”

She doesn’t let him finish.  “You’re a hero, and Sam thinks the world of you, and Sam don’t think like that about just anyone.  You’re Captain America.”  Steve doesn’t want to hear that, grimacing and turning away.  “And whatever you think you did?  It’s not as bad as all that.  You don’t want to lean on other people?  You don’t want to let go of your pain?  You should.  Talking helps.”

 _If I’d done that, none of this would have happened.  If I let myself admit the truth…_   He can’t say what he’s thinking.  He couldn’t then, and he can’t now.  So he says nothing at all, sitting at this little kitchen table with this veritable spread of breakfast goodness around him on the day after Christmas, not eating, and suddenly all defeated and bruised and broken.  That’s how feeble and fragile his mask his, how weak his composure has become.  How brittle.  Seconds slip away, stretching to minutes, and he just can’t move.  All the good cheer of the last couple days, of having a place to fit in and belong…  It just vanishes.

Arleen sighs again after a moment, like a parent does for a child who can’t understand a life lesson.  “You know, there’s this thing I used to tell Sammy that my Mama used to tell me when I was little.  She used to say ‘don’t be troubling yourself over things you can’t change.  Know when to let it be.’”  She sets her mug down again, nodding at Steve.  “I think that’s good advice for you, boy.  Know when to let it be, and know when to forget and forgive, particularly yourself.”

“Ma’am–”

“Sorry if I’m talking out of turn.  Sorry if I’m askin’ things I shouldn’t and bein’ too blunt.”  Steve watches her, not sure that she’s actually sorry about any of that or just feeling sorry for him.  He doesn’t want pity or even sympathy.  When he was a kid, he used to rail against that with everything he had.  Now he’s just tired.

She recognizes that.  “But it’s difficult watching a nice kid like you hurtin’.”  

 _A kid._   Child and boy.  It’s been so long since anyone’s called him that, even if it’s not strictly true and he’s older than her.  It makes him feel a bit better to be reminded that he is young, even if his bones feel old and heavy sometimes and even if he’s seen and done far too much.  “And for no real reason other than you bein’ too hard on yourself.”

He doesn’t say anything to that.  He doesn’t know what to say.  He didn’t think he was being so obvious with how low he’s been feeling, but maybe he has been, even here where he knows he’s smiled and laughed more in the last forty-eight hours than he has in months.  Maybe he hasn’t convinced anyone with his lies, least of all himself.

Arleen reaches across the table and grasps Steve’s hands where they’re limp around his plate.  Her grip is warm, firm, what Steve’s come to expect from her.  What he knows, because it’s the same as Sam’s.  “You eat, love.  I know you’re leavin’ today.”

“Who told you…”  They didn’t much discuss their departure other than one brief mention on Steve’s part right at the beginning in secret to Sam, mostly because they don’t want to think about it or upset Sam’s mother.  Obviously Sam has absolutely  _no_  capacity to keep secrets when it comes to her, as no good son should, Steve supposes.  He looks down.  “Yeah.  We can’t stay here.  It’s too dangerous for you.”

“I know.”  There’s pain in her words, pain that she’s bravely withholding.  Pain, but no blame.  “But you ain’t leaving yet.  So you sit here and eat.  Fill up for when you can’t.”

There’s no arguing with her, and she knows it.  She gets up and takes her empty coffee cup to the sink.  She waits until she sees Steve pick up his knife and fork and get back to the breakfast.  Steve eats slowly at first, both because she’s watching (and that’s still a little weird) and because he feels raw.  The creamy grits and rich gravy touch his tongue, though, and warm their way down his throat, and the jam he puts on another biscuit is so deliciously thick and sweet and his hunger gets the better of him.  She nods to herself before walking past and touching his hair fondly, motherly.

When she’s on her way out of the kitchen, he turns in his seat.  “I’m here because I ruined the only thing I had that was close to a home,” he admits.  He shakes his head.  The words just come, things he’s held inside, truths he can’t hide anymore.  “I don’t have anyone else, and I can’t go back.”

She meets his gaze.  “I doubt that last thing very much,” she finally says.  She can’t possibly know anything, not about how he feels for Tony and not about what happened between the two of them, either.  There’s no way Sam blabbed about it to her, because even Sam doesn’t know the whole story.

But having her say that…  Blind optimism or not, it inexplicably soothes his hurts.  She smiles.  “But even if it’s true, you always have a home here.”

She leaves it at that, and Steve sits still a second, letting those words into his heart.   _You_ _have a home._   Feeling better, he settles down to eat.

* * *

They do leave later that day, a little after dinner.  Arleen makes Sam’s favorite: gumbo.  Steve’s never had it before, and it was out of this world, chock full of shrimp, crab, chicken, some sort of spicy sausage, bell peppers, celery, and onions.  It was thick and hearty, made with dark, buttery roux.  Sam explained to Steve over dinner how his mother has two types gumbo: the expensive kind, reserved for holidays and special occasions, and the cheap kind.  This was most certainly the former.  They devoured it, the stew poured over rice and accompanied by hot sauce and bread, and Sam talked animatedly about his childhood, about his friends and his father and school and church.  It was wonderful, just as it had been over Christmas, getting lost in Sam’s life, seeing the joy and pride in his eyes as he talked and talked, as he and his mother relived memories together.  It was easy to forget everything again, both the past and what’s ahead.

Unfortunately, the meal ended. The whole trip and all the escape and sanctuary it provided ended.  It had to.  They truly couldn’t stay, although the entire evening as they packed their few things that was the only thing on their minds, even Steve’s.  It had only been two days since they arrived, so the thought of leaving so soon was devastating.  Steve could see it wearing on Sam.  For most the day it haunted him, dark on the edges of his joy, but now it was at the forefront.  He wasn’t ready to leave, and Arleen wasn’t ready for him to go, and there was no denying that.

So no one does.  Steve hangs back as Sam hugs and hugs his mother, the embrace lasting for a good while.  They’re silently talking to each other, telling each other how much they love one another, how much they appreciated and needed this, how it can sustain them both through the difficult months of estrangement to come.  Promising each other that it will be fine and they’ll see each other again.  And they know it’s not a promise that can be kept, but they make it all the same, because that’s what has to be done.

When Sam finally lets his mother go, his eyes are sparkling with tears.  He’s not trying to hide them or wipe them away.  He grabs the duffel bag his mother made him, one full of gifts he received and treats and fresh clothes and toiletries.  Then he sniffles, grinning and giving his home one last look-around before clasping Steve on the shoulder as he heads to the door.

Arleen comes to Steve.  She’s smiling, and of course she pulls him into a hug.  She’s so slight, and he’s so big, and the height disparity feels as weird as has for the past couple days.  She still doesn’t let that stop her, not that or the fact that he’s a stranger and Captain America.  She simply pulls him down so she can murmur in his ear.  “You take care of my Sam, you hear?”

Steve nods, hugging her back.  “Of course, ma’am.”

She doesn’t bother to correct him, pulling back and cupping his face.  She’s smiling, confident.  “I know you will, child.  And you take care of yourself.  Let yourself have what you need.”

Fifteen minutes later, Sam and Steve are back in the SUV Maria Hill gave them when she flew them from where they crossed the US border in Texas Christmas Eve.  This time Sam’s driving, which is just as well because Steve’s still thinking about what Sam’s mother said long after they leave the house.   _Let yourself have what you need.  Forgive yourself._ _Fill up for when you can’t._ He closes his eyes and hears Tony’s angry voice, sees Tony’s teary, furious eyes, feels the pain of Tony’s punches.

He’s not sure he’ll ever get the chance.

Sam is silent, which is also just as well.  Steve doesn’t have it inside him to talk, and Sam probably doesn’t want stupid chit-chat anyway.  This is so difficult, and Steve doesn’t know why he didn’t anticipate that.  After being away so long and then experiencing this sudden reunion, it’s almost disorienting.  If Steve feels this empty, hollow, and groundless, how must Sam feel?  

And, for that matter, why the hell is he feeling this way to begin with?  Why is he thinking –  _dreaming_  – about Tony and what happened so much?  It’s been six months since Siberia, and there’s no reason all of this should be so at the forefront.  He’s dealt with it for weeks and it has never consumed him like this.  Sure, it’s the holidays, and, sure, Steve spent last Christmas with Tony, but it’s not like he expected to spend this Christmas with anyone.  He expected to be alone.  The fact that he got to share a couple days with Sam and his mother is more than he anticipated or deserved.  He should be happy with that.  He  _is_ happy with that.  For crying out loud, he’s lucky to be here, lucky to be alive after everything that’s happened.

He’s so caught up in feeling anchorless that he hardly notices when Sam pulls the SUV into the little, private airport north of New Orleans.  They drove for almost an hour without really talking or even so much as looking at each other.  That doesn’t feel real (or good), and it doesn’t feel good to be here.  Steve focuses on the world outside and sees the setting sun, the flat land, the trees around the tiny airport.  Without delay, Sam drives them down a road toward the same hangar they used before.  He heaves a sigh.  “I gotta thank you again,” he quietly declares.

Steve winces.  This is only about the hundredth time Sam has thanked him for his silly gift since they got to his mother’s.  Right now he doesn’t feel like he should be thanked for anything.  “It’s nothing, Sam.”

“No, man. It’s not nothing.  You put everything on the line to do this.”

“Sam–”

“You went above and beyond.”  Sam parks next to the hangar and shuts the car off.  Unsurprisingly, there’s no one around.  Steve feels a little trapped despite that, more by the conversation than anything else.  He wants to close the door on this and go back to Nat and their lives.  Maybe that’s stupid and bitter and selfish, but that life he can navigate.  He can focus and power through missions and ops because he knows how to do that.  He’s been trained for it, made for it.

Slowing down leads to this.

Sam keeps going, though.  “You really did.  You didn’t have to, and you went all the way to get me what I needed.”

“By almost getting you arrested?” Steve quips, but he can’t hide the pain, even with a weak smile.

“By getting me home to my Mama,” Sam replies evenly.  “On Christmas.  You made that happen.  That’s… freaking  _incredible_.  Best gift ever, dude.”

Steve feels his face heat.  “Thanks.  Is Hill on her way?”

“Ride’s coming.”  Sam takes a deep breath.  “Didn’t think…  You know, after Riley went down.  I didn’t think I’d ever have a wingman again.”  Steve turns to his friend, quieting his discomfort and disquiet.  Sam’s smiling and nodding to himself.  “Didn’t think I’d ever have someone lookin’ out for me like he did again, and here you are, and here we are, and everythin’ I said, you know, when we were in Mexico about wanting to be on your side, about needing to be there…”  He meets Steve’s gaze.  “Going back hurts, but I feel okay, mostly because of that.  Because of you and everything you’ve done.”

Steve doesn’t know what to say.  That eases the pain for sure, because no matter how much he hurts, Sam’s there for him, too.  The things  _he_  said in Mexico, when Sam was carrying him across the desert and keeping him awake and going, when Sam was getting them out of that crisis and basically saving his life…  Steve meant all that, too.  Sam is the reason he can do this, the reason he keeps his faith, the reason he knows there’s still good and decency despite what he’s lost.  Sam takes care of him.

As he’s looking at Sam now, there’s this glint in his eye.  Sam cocks an eyebrow.  “So I decided that fair’s fair.  I gotta get you something really nice for Christmas, too.”

 _Huh?_  The comes out of left field.  Steve shakes his head, appraising his friend as that mischievous glimmer in Sam’s eyes gets stronger.  “You already got me something,” Steve says after a beat.  “You invited me in!  You brought me to your mom’s and let me share everything with you.”  Sam grins, and Steve gets more and more confused.  “Sam, believe me, that was a gift all its own.”

“I know,” Sam says, just a tad smug.  “But that doesn’t count.”

Disbelief has Steve sputtering.  “How does that not count?”

“Because there is no way in hell anyone could send you off to spend Christmas alone.  And Southern hospitality ain’t a gift.  It’s a responsibility.  Mama always told me that, and I told you that, and it just doesn’t count.”

This is ridiculous.  “Sam, for crying out loud, you don’t have to get me anything.  And Christmas was yesterday.  And I’m fine.”

“I told you to stop telling me that.”  Sam had.  Steve’s memories of the walk across the desert and their flight through the Mexican border town aren’t terribly clear (probably due to blood loss and the onset of shock), but he does remember Sam making numerous annoyed comments about his propensity to proclaim how well he is when he’s not.  Sam’s mother basically said the same thing.  Again, he’s obviously not nearly convincing as he thinks he is.

Sam’s smile slips a little and confirms everything.  He sighs.  “Come on, Steve.  Did you really think  _I_ wouldn’t notice?”

Bucky always told him he was a stubborn jerk, and he is, so Steve plays dumb.  “Wouldn’t notice what?”

“You and Stark.”

Now Steve really stiffens.  The reaction is automatic; he can’t stifle it, can’t stop it.   _No one_ knows how he feels about Tony.  Not Nat.  Not Wanda or anyone else on the team.  Not Bucky, the couple days they got to spend together before Bucky went back under.  Not even Tony, obviously.

But apparently Sam does, because Sam is wickedly perceptive.  

Or because Sam checked his flip phone.  The second that conclusion comes to Steve, that devious glint returns to Sam’s eyes.  “You’ve texted back and forth with him dozens of times.”

“Arguing,” Steve says, and he can’t even summon the energy to be angry that Sam went through his conversation with Tony.  He looks down to gather his composure.  The phone’s there in his jeans pocket.  He hasn’t looked at it much over the last couple days.  The mere thought was too painful, so he’s kept it close but closed.  Right now it feels so heavy.

Sam shakes his head.  “Not arguing.”  Steve turns to him.  Sam raises his hands in surrender.  “Well, maybe.  I dunno.  Hey, I respect you too much to go snooping.  Really.  Your phone fell out when you got hurt and I looked, but I didn’t see beyond the huge pile of messages.  I didn’t read anything.”  Sam tips his head.  “Well, except for the one you never sent, and that one only because it was right there.”  

Unwittingly Steve tenses again.  That message.  He typed it into the phone when they were flying across the Atlantic on the quinjet for Sam’s surprise.  Sam was sleeping at the time, and Nat was handling the jet’s controls, and he had a second to himself, so he took it.  He took it and typed some useless trash into the phone.   _“_ _Merry Christmas.  I miss you._ _”_

Sam’s right, both about him never sending it and about how that makes his relationship with Tony sound.  That’s  _why_ Steve never sent it.  He and Tony have been texting back and forth, and it has been a lot of arguing.  It started not long after Steve busted the rest of his team off the Raft, not long after he sent Tony that phone.  Tony almost immediately texted him to let him know Ross was all over him thanks to Steve’s actions setting his friends free.  Steve can remember getting that message, so soon after sending the phone in the first place.  He can recall sitting there in Wakanda and not knowing if he should answer.  He did, apologizing but saying he had no choice.

And that sparked the entire exchange.  He knows Tony is incredibly hurt; he said as much in that letter he wrote to him and sent with the phone.  Through texts, he apologized over and over again for what happened with Bucky and his parents, for the fact that he didn’t let himself see the truth to protect himself.  He apologized for that and admitted that a lie of omission, even to save himself and Tony pain, was still a lie.  Tony can’t accept any of that.  Steve can’t expect him to.  As far as the Accords go, Tony wants an apology for that, too.  Steve can tell.  Tony wants Steve to take the blame for not signing, for not agreeing, for not accepting.  Steve won’t.  Tony considers that another betrayal, one of their working relationship, their understanding of what the Avengers are and should be.  Steve knows his refusal is anything but.  They go back and forth and back and forth, and endless vicious circle that gets them nowhere.  There was no answer before when all of this complicated misery was unfolding, and there still isn’t.

Steve didn’t hear from Tony for almost a week before he wrote that short message.  At the time, he wondered if their last emotional debate (as emotional as it can be over short text messages) would be the end of it all.  He doesn’t want that, so that’s why he wrote the message in the first place, wishing Tony a merry Christmas.  But then he never brought himself to send it, because it’s so…  _not enough._   It’s the equivalent of saying,  _“I still care about you, just so you know.  By the way, happy Holidays.”_   He feels so much more, wants so much more, so sending Tony something so seemingly mundane, meaningless, and pared down feels incredibly wrong.

Thus he didn’t do it, thinking he might have time after dropping Sam off at his mother’s to come up with a better way of telling Tony how much he still cares.  He didn’t plan on getting shot and spending the holiday with Sam and Arleen.  Now…

“It’s not too late, you know.”

Steve focuses.  “What?”

Sam shrugs a little.  “I know you, Steve.  I’ve watched you miss him.  I’ve seen it, and I’ve seen everything that’s happened wear on you.  I know you’re hurting, like you knew I was, and I can’t  _not_ do anything about that.  I can’t ignore it.”  He cocks his head, like where this is going should be obvious.  “So I called him.”

That doesn’t make sense.  Steve stares, and stares, and  _stares_ , because his brain is stumbling and stuttering and utterly unable to put any meaning to those words.  His mouth moves before his brain does.  “You  _what?_ ”

Sam smiles again.  “While you were in surgery.  I figured I had the phone, and you couldn’t be a pain in the ass for a second, so…  You gotta understand.  Tony’s not…  Well, he’s not my favorite, let’s just leave it at that.  Not after what happened.”

Steve sniffles and shakes his head.  Sam called Tony.   _He_ hasn’t called Tony, hasn’t talked to him once in six months.  It doesn’t seem fair.  “It’s not his fault,” he mumbles, feeling even lower.

“Don’t matter,” Sam replies.  “It really doesn’t.  This isn’t laying blame anymore.  And it’s not about me and what I think.  It’s about you, and it’s about him, and it’s about Christmas.  It’s about family and fixing stuff that’s been broken.  So, yes, I called him.  You obviously weren’t going to, and you weren’t going to send that text–”

“You don’t know that,” Steve mutters.

“I do know that,” Sam argues, “because you were too busy being a stupid, stubborn, self-sacrificing–”

“Idiot,” Steve finishes.  He sighs.  “I know.”

Sam nods, pleased.  “So I called him for you.  And he answered.”

Suddenly the car spins around Steve.  “He answered?” he whispers.

“He did.  On the first ring.”

 _God._   What does that mean?  All the time Steve spends holding that phone, keeping it close like it’s his most treasured possession, imagining it ringing, imagining  _talking_ to Tony…  Has Tony spent days and weeks and months doing the same?  Has he held the phone close, so close that he could pick it up the second it rang?

“He answered,” Sam continues, “and we talked for a couple minutes.  You owe me for being so cordial with him, by the way.  It wasn’t easy.  But for you, and in the spirit of Christmas, we managed.  And he sent the chopper.”

Again, that doesn’t make sense.  Sam gets out of the car and heads to the hangar.  Steve watches in utter stupefaction as his friend knocks on the hangar door.  The massive metal barrier opens, and, sure enough, there’s a helicopter in there, a very sleek and modern one.  Boldly it says  _Stark Industries_ on the side.  Steve stares at the gray aircraft, flabbergasted and shocked beyond all rational thought.  He opens his car door and stands.  “What in the world…”

Sam turns back to him.  He raises his hands.  “My gift to you,” he offers.  Then he tips his head to the chopper.  “He’s waiting back at the complex.  Waiting for you.”

“Tony’s…”  Steve can’t finish.  His heart’s starting to pound again.  His spirits are lifting.  It’s really starting to sink in, what Sam’s apparently arranged.  What this means.  What’s going to happen now.  He comes closer to stand at Steve’s side, marveling at the chopper.  “I can’t believe it.”

“Well, you know Stark.  He never does things by halves.”  Sam sighs.  “Look, man, I don’t know if this is what you need, but I know it’s what you want.  And I want you to find your peace with everything that’s happened.  I want you to have a chance to talk to him, face to face, and obviously he wants that, too, or he wouldn’t have answered and he sure as hell wouldn’t have agreed to this.”  He shakes his head, face open and eyes dark with concern.  “I want you to have a chance to tell him.  Tell him…  Tell him how you feel.”

Steve’s gaze snaps to Sam, searching his face for signs of disgust, doubt, or anger.  There aren’t any.  Of course there wouldn’t be.  Sam’s not one to look down on him for who his heart chooses.  Sam’s never one to judge.  No, all that’s there is tender hope and compassion and a touch of regret.  “One night is all I can give you.  Fury was pissed about even that, so you should be kissing my feet that I got what I did.  You should also be thanking my lucky stars I’m willing to bunk down with him in their safehouse tonight.  I’m sure he’s not gonna have anything to watch on TV, not even football.  Anyway, tomorrow Stark will fly you back, and we need to be gone by 0900 hours, and–”

Steve doesn’t let him finish.  He just flings himself at Sam, grabbing him tight.  Sam’s words choke off, and he just chuckles, hugging Steve back.  Steve clenches his eyes shut against the burn of tears.  “God,” he gasps into Sam’s shoulder.  “Sam, thank you.  Thank you!”

“Dude, it’s…”  Steve holds him even harder, like squeezing him is the only way he can express the depth of his gratitude.  Sam rubs his back and laughs.  “Hey, you’re welcome.  You’re welcome.  Merry Christmas.”

“You missed the deadline!” Steve says with a laugh, so damn elated he can hardly breathe.  He pulls back, wiping at his eyes.

“Yeah, well, it’s the thought that counts,” Sam says with a smirk, and it’s not entirely without smugness.  “And I was inspired.”

Steve just stares at him, so overwhelmed –  _I’m going home I’m going to see Tony I’m going to Tony_ – with what Sam’s done.  He doesn’t know what to say.  He doesn’t even know what to think or how to feel, other than incredibly excited and grateful.  Though he can’t imagine what will come of this, and seeing Tony again scares him like mad, and he can’t dare to hope about  _anything_ , he can’t deny how much he does want it.  He didn’t know how much he  _needed_  it until now, until he has it.

“Can dish it out but can’t take it, huh?” Sam jokes, obviously amused with how gobsmacked he’s left his friend.

Steve grins, itching with sudden energy.  “Guess not.”

Sam watches him a moment more, and Steve jitters and fidgets, and the moment drags on until it gets uncomfortable, until Sam shakes his head, smiling.  “Go on.  Get outta here.”  Steve smiles again before heading quickly into the hangar, where the helicopter waits.  “Just promise me, man,” Sam calls after him.  Steve glances over his shoulder.  “Promise me you’ll make this worth it.”

_Tell him how you feel._

He hopes Tony will forgive him enough to listen.

* * *

About halfway through the flight from New Orleans to New York, Steve’s doubt begins to overrun his hopes.  The monumental difficulty of actually speaking to Tony face to face after so many months is serious enough.  But on a practical level?  A tactical level?  This is insane.  It’s stupid, for one, and dangerous.  Not that Tony would lay a trap for him; Steve knows that in the bottom of his heart.  But Ross has his claws in Tony.  The bastard’s been all over him, a fact Tony’s mentioned once or twice in his texts, so the threat of Ross finding a way to monitor Tony’s calls or texts or actions themselves seems very real.  Maybe Ross knows he’s sent the helicopter (which is being automatically piloted by FRIDAY), and he’s using Tony like bait.  Ross will be there, waiting to arrest them both.

Of course, the double standard taunts from the sidelines of his thoughts.  Steve brushed off all the concerns he had about the risks when it came to his plan to get Sam home.  He ignored the perils, downplayed both Fury and Nat warning him, insisted the risks were worth sending Sam home to his mother for the holidays.  He didn’t even bat an eye at the consequences.  This is no less problematic, yet his mind is buzzing with worry and anxiety and fear.  Ross is such a vile, evil, manipulative monster; Steve can imagine him doing anything and everything to bring the Avengers under his heel.

And then, of course, there are his other fears.  What if Tony doesn’t want to see him?  That seems unlikely, given what Sam said and the fact that he sent the helicopter. But what if Tony doesn’t want to talk?  What if Tony is still too upset to really listen?  What if Steve can’t find the courage to say what he wants to say?  Or what if he does, and Tony doesn’t feel the same?  There are million  _what ifs_ , and they are all storming through Steve’s head.  It’s dizzying, and Steve’s nerves are tingling, and his mind’s racing.  His heart’s pounding and he feels lightheaded.  Sitting still for the couple hours it takes to fly across the country is all but impossible.

But he does.  When the jet descends, it seems to take forever before  he can see the land below.  The sky’s thick with heavy clouds that hang low, and they are on the final approach seemingly just as soon as Steve can make out the complex itself.  The chopper circles the area, and there’s nothing unusual, no regiment of soldiers to apprehend him.  No SUVs or trucks or signs of trouble.  No indication that Ross (or anyone else) is there.  No, the complex is the same as Steve remembers, sprawling on its many acres north of the city.  Even in the darkness of night, Steve can tell there’s snow on the grounds – a soft, white Christmas – and the Avengers logo glows where it’s backlit on the main building.  There’s no quinjet on the landing pad, so the helicopter immediately sets down.

There’s also no one there to greet him, bad or otherwise.  Steve’s tentative, senses heightened and body tense as he climbs out of the chopper and steps onto the concrete.  It’s snowing now, small flakes slowly tumbling down, and he stands there and looks around a moment.  He shouldn’t; he knows better, and it’s not smart in the slightest to be out in the open, but he can’t help himself.  This is so different from Louisiana, more like the winters he knows and loves.  It’s so quiet, and the sky is a charcoal gray, the clouds reflecting the light of the complex and glowing.  The snow is gliding through the cold, cold air, crunching under his sneakers.  The snowfall is fresh; there’s not a footprint in it, not a mark at all.  It’s a true winter wonderland, silent and gleaming.

Quietly he heads toward the entrance.  When he reaches the sliding doors, he half expects they won’t open, but they do.  He steps inside, and the lights in the large foyer and surrounding corridors turn on to a low, comfortable level.  It looks just like he remembers: sleek décor, silver and chrome accents, big and spacious with the Avengers logo looming on the back wall over the security desk.  No one is there now.  “FRIDAY?” he calls, and he expects anew that nobody will respond.

The AI does, though, and Steve finds the sound of her voice (as artificial as it may be) infinitely consoling.  “Captain.”  Of course she would recognize him.  She let him inside.  She flew him here, after all.  “Mr. Stark is in his workshop.  You may wait here until I summon him.”

It hurts that she doesn’t invite him in further, but he does as she says and waits.  He finds himself pacing.  That’s dumb; he can’t remember the last time he did this, but he can’t stop.  He’s more nervous than he can ever recall being.  It’s almost unbearable, and the seconds drag on and on, and he wants to run away.  He wants to run up to Tony’s workshop.  He wants to fix this and defend himself and beg for forgiveness and rail in anger.  He wants  _so badly_ to tell Tony how much he needs him.

Then he gets the chance.  He’s staring outside at the snow through the big bank of windows behind him when there’s a quiet but achingly familiar call.  “Rogers.”

Steve turns, and there Tony is.  He’s standing at the steps that lead up and out of the foyer.  He looks…  _so good,_  as good as he always does and always did.  He’s dressed in dark jeans and a plain black turtleneck that seems unbelievably soft and ridiculously expensive.  No garish t-shirts or ripped pants this time.  His hair’s gelled and spiked, and his goatee is perfectly trimmed, and his skin is healthy, its normal olive tones.  Yet Steve can see the shadows around his eyes, the haunting pain there, as Tony stares at him.  They stare and stare at each other, and time stops.

Eventually it starts again, uncertain and a tad unreal.  “Tony,” Steve murmurs.  He exhales a heavy breath that he’s been holding.  “You look…”

“You look like hell,” Tony says instead.  Immediately Steve puts a hand to his beard, feels the longer hair framing his face.  Aside from the new jacket Sam’s mom gave him, he’s wearing used clothes that are a little baggy and too big.  Tony frowns, and that pain inside Steve comes back.  The inventor takes a couple steps forward.  “Well, hell for you, which is still…”  He stops himself, like he was about to say something flirty but realized it’s not right.  At least, Steve wants to think that.  Tony sighs.  “You’re okay?”

“Okay enough,” Steve replies.

“Wilson said you were shot a couple days back,” Tony says, and his voice is so emotionless.  The pain gets tighter and worse, and Steve’s guts twist in a spasm like he’s being shot all over again.  “He only told me so that I’d make sure you rest.  You need to rest?”

This whole thing feels so harsh and wrong.  “No, not really.  I’m fine.”

Tony nods and the hard expression on his face gets harder.  “He also told me that he thinks I’m an asshole.”  Steve winces.  Tony shakes his head.  “He’s not wrong.”

“Tony–”

“He told me what you did for him, that you risked everything to get him home for the holidays.”  Tony rolls his eyes a little, folding his arms over his chest and coming even closer.  “That sounds like you.  And New Orleans sounds like him actually, so that all makes sense.”

Steve can’t stand it.  “Tony, if you don’t want me here, I’ll leave.”  He will.  It’ll kill him, but he’ll do it to spare Tony any more pain.  If his very presence has become tied to what happened in Siberia, to what Bucky did to his parents and the betrayal that stems from it, he’ll willingly go and never come back.

Tony shakes his head.  “I don’t want you to leave.”

God, that’s such a relief.  Steve’s practically shaking from how strong it is.  He can’t bring himself to look at Tony, too afraid of what he’ll see.  The silence drags on again, horrible and seemingly unending, before Tony finally says something else.  “Wilson also said you have something to tell me.”

Apparently this is it already.  Sam has really committed him.  Steve looks at Tony, out of surprise more than anything else.  Tony’s staring right at him, and the quiet returns, swooping in like a bird of prey eager to slay the meager hopes that this conversation can go anywhere constructive.  That makes Steve’s courage wither.  His reluctance to speak frustrates Tony.  Tony sighs again, impatient.  “So what is it?”

Steve’s mouth falls open.  He knows how he feels, but he doesn’t have the slightest idea what to say.  What  _does_ he want to say?  The same text he started to write on the quinjet when they flew to Mexico but never sent?   _“Merry Christmas.  I miss you.”_   How happy he is to be here?  How coming to the complex, how  _seeing_ Tony and hearing his voice, fills that place inside him that has been empty and aching and bleeding?  How Tony has haunted his dreams, the good ones and nightmares alike, since they parted ways?  How can he  _say_  that?

Tony shakes his head, and Steve wonders how long he’s been standing there, staring mutely.  “Come on, Rogers.  Out with it.  What?  What can’t you tell me over text?  Huh?”  There’s more ire behind his words now, and they come faster and faster.  “I’m busy, you know, spending Christmas  _completely_  alone since you took the kids in the divorce.  That’s been fun.  And Pepper’s not here.  And Rhodey’s not here.  And Vision went to you, I guess, or to Wanda, which is basically the same thing.  Bruce is still MIA, and Thor…  Well, he never liked me much to begin with, but even he’s not here to give me shit for screwing up so bad.  But, yeah, I’ve been busy, hanging with my bots, working on shit for a team I no longer have.”

The pain becomes crippling.  “Tony…”

“DUM-E sings a mean ‘White Christmas’.  Not Bing Crosby good, but it’s solid.  And U looks so festive in lights.  I stick a red nose on him and pretend he’s Rudolph.  And FRIDAY?  She gives the best gifts.   _Nothing._   So nothing compares to that.”

“Tony, please–” 

“Thus I’m fine.  Having a holly jolly Christmas.”

“That’s not–”

“What do you  _want,_ Rogers?” Tony snaps, and now he’s not hiding how broken he is.  “Huh?  Why are you here?  You want to apologize?  For what this time?  For your pal choking my mom and beating my dad’s head in?”  Steve grimaces.  No, no.  That’s not what he wants.  He doesn’t even want to think about that, not today.  No matter how they have argued and debated it through texts, and no matter how many times Steve  _has_ apologized, it’s clearly not enough for Tony.  Furthermore, clearly Tony has been thinking about it.  He’s glaring daggers through watery eyes.  “The anniversary was a few weeks ago, you know.  But guess what?  Spent that alone, too.”

Steve looks away.  This is what always happens when they go down this road.  He can’t ever apologize enough, not enough to assuage Tony’s suffering because Tony is blaming him for more than is actually his fault.  Tony’s pain is deeply set and so unfair to endure, the vast amount he has suffered and lost, but it’s not Steve’s burden to bear.  Not like this.  Not foisted on him.  And Steve has lost and suffered plenty on his own.

Still, the words come automatically.  “Tony, I’m sorry.”  

And, as usual, they do nothing and mean nothing.  “So you  _are_  apologizing.  For tearing the team apart?”

“Tony, you know that’s not fair–”

“What does fair have to do with it,” Tony spits, voice full of bitterness.

“Please, I didn’t come here to fight.  I didn’t come here to make either of us feel bad.”

Tony shakes his head.  Every line of his posture screams confrontation and distress.  “Fighting seems to be the only thing we’re good at.  And I freaking  _excel_ at feeling bad.”

Now Steve takes a step forward.  “You’re wrong,” he insists.  “We worked well together.  We did.  And we’re friends.  You said you were my friend, and I’m yours, and we led the team, Tony.  You know that.”

Tony shakes his head, forcefully shoving away facts he doesn’t want to see.  “Back then.  But we destroyed everything we built, didn’t we?  Just like that asshole said: an empire that breaks from within is dead for good.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is.”

“That asshole set us up, Tony!  Don’t you see?”  Steve comes another step closer, desperate to show Tony the truth the way he always is when they argue about this.  “He set us up!  He knew what would happen!  He used Bucky and the past against us!”

And Tony steps forward too.  “Yeah, because he knew how terrible we are together, how  _little_ you and I see eye to eye.”

“Tony, no, God, we’re not terrible–”

“Why are you  _here_?” Tony demands again.  His words are still getting hotter and faster as all the pent-up emotions from the last six months come spilling out in a flood.  Steve turns away, hating himself, feeling his own pain turn vicious and stabbing.  “Why?  You want to show up and make sure I’m not alone like you said?  Wish me a merry goddamn Christmas?  Tell me we can still be friends?  Make yourself feel better, just like you did when you didn’t tell me about what you knew?  What is it you want to tell me?”

Everything Steve wants to say, that he has been saying, dies in his heart, in his mind, in his throat.  He stares at Tony, who’s breathing hard and scowling.  They’ve walked the whole lobby, so that they’re nearly face to dace.  Drawn together, it seems, even as they shove each other apart.  The pain grows to agony when Steve notices that, and he nearly doubles over from how crippling it is.  “I didn’t come to fight,” he finally whispers.  “That’s not what I want.”

Tony balks.  Steve swears his eyes glitter with tears.  “Then what do you want?  What else is left?”

“There’s more to us than what happened in that bunker,” Steve insists, his own voice breaking.  “There’s more than our mistakes.”

“I don’t believe you,” Tony hisses, and he turns away.  “If that’s really what you came all this way to say, on  _Christmas_ , then you’re wasting your time.”

This is all falling apart.  Steve feels helpless again, the way he did when he stood there and watched Tony watching Bucky killing his parents.  The way he did when he watched Tony attacking Bucky.  He can’t let the past dictate his future.  Not anymore.  “Tony, wait!”  He needs to be honest.  He has to talk.  He has to tell Tony what he promised he would.  “Tony!”

He has to do what he should have done long before.  

“Tony, I love you.”

Tony stops dead in his tracks.  Steve can see the shock work its way up and down his body, muscles tensing, frame going stiff.  For a second, he wants desperately to pull those words back.  They weren’t said loudly or boldly, but they feel to be both, echoing through the room, through their heads and hearts, and the world seems like it’s collapsing down onto them.

Then Tony turns around.  His eyes are wide, his face pale.  His mouth is slack and limply open.  He looks terrified, and Steve loses his nerve.  “That’s…  That’s what I came to say.  That’s all I wanted to say.  That and…  And I miss you.  I really, really miss you.  It hurts so much sometimes.  So much.  Okay?  That’s that.”  He swallows his thundering heart, the awful knot in his throat, and rushes on.  “And Merry Christmas.”  

Tony’s still just staring, his eyes empty.  Steve searches his face for something, for any hint of a reaction, positive or negative.  There’s nothing, like his proclamation has honest to God short-circuited Tony’s brain.  That’s terrible, and Steve knows in his core that this was an unbelievable, damning mistake.  He should never have come, never taken Sam’s offer and his advice, never let himself believe he’s good enough to be what Tony needs.

So he goes the other direction.  He steps backward toward the door.  “I’ll leave, okay?  That’s for the best.  I just…  I wanted you to know.  So…”  He takes another step behind him and another and another.  Tony doesn’t move at all.  This is it.  Steve nods, more to himself and the way things worked out than anything else.  “So…  Goodbye.”  He turns to go for good.

He doesn’t make it.  “Steve, wait!  Wait!” Tony cries, and Steve turns, and the next thing he knows Tony is grabbing his arm, grabbing his jacket and his shirt, grabbing him and pulling him close.  Kissing him.

All the times Steve imagined this, fantasized about it, dreamed of it…  It’s nothing like what he envisioned.  Tony’s kiss is hard, and his lips are chapped, and he’s grabbing like he thinks Steve isn’t real, like he may up and vanish.  Steve himself is so shocked and graceless, fumbling to kiss back, shivering with nervousness.  It’s rough and uncertain, tenuous, like at any moment everything may simply shatter,.

The harried moment softens, though, and strengthens, and they both ease into each other.  The barrier of pain and guilt and anger that’s been separating them as much as laws and miles…  It fades, dissolved by tender truth, and Tony cups Steve’s face, lips gently sliding across lips, and Steve throws his arms around Tony and holds him tight.

When they finally pull away, Tony closes his eyes and leans his forehead into Steve’s.  “Don’t go,” he whispers.  “Please.”

“I won’t,” Steve murmurs back.  “I came to be with you.  This is home, and home is you, and–”  His next words are swallowed by another kiss, this one deeper and more passionate.  Steve can feel Tony shaking, taste his tears, see the feverish light in his eyes.  “I’m here to be with you.”

“Then stay,” Tony breathlessly implores.  “Stay.” 

Steve does.  The pain finally stops.

* * *

It’s late.  Outside the snow is falling harder, coating the world more and more.  Inside, though, they’re warm and safe.  They settle down in front of the Christmas tree in the common room.  It’s just like Steve dreamed it would be.  The tree is big but not ostentatious with its icy, white lights and silvery trimmings.  There are decorations elsewhere, too, the simple, elegant, lighted garlands setting the room aglow.  Steve’s glad Tony still decorated, even if he’s been alone.

He’s also glad there’s food in the kitchen, though not much.  Tony’s obviously been by himself for a few days or a week (or longer; Steve doesn’t want to think about that).  He’s never been very good at taking care of himself.  Steve doesn’t say anything, and Tony doesn’t offer more than Pepper’s been busy with the company and Rhodey’s overseas.  They both will be back for New Year’s, but even still, spending Christmas in solitude…

_I’m here now._

And Steve’s no cook.  He has no magic with food, not like Sam’s mother has or his own mother had.  But he finds some pasta in the pantry as well as some canned tomatoes and spices he can use to make a sauce.  There’s no meat or bread, no fresh vegetables, but there’s brownie mix and some eggs and a couple other ingredients that don’t necessarily go together.  Still, he whips up something a little eclectic but not bad, and they sit in front of the tree and open a bottle of wine and have dinner and dessert.

Everything’s changed between them.  It doesn’t feel real.  Tony hasn’t said much since the kiss.  Steve hasn’t, either.  They’ve stayed close, Tony in particular, like he’s afraid if he lets Steve out of his sight, he’ll disappear.  Like if he acknowledges how different everything abruptly feels, it’ll go back to pain and disconnect.  Steve feels the same, so he doesn’t mind the other man being near to him at all.  The contact is electrifying and soothing at once, so stabilizing to nerves and senses that have been deprived for months and months.  They sit side by side on the couch, quickly eating the pasta Steve made, close but not touching.  And not talking.

But it’s not uncomfortable.  Steve’s watching Tony eat, and he’s glad to see it.  More than once he catches Tony doing the same for him.  Maybe he’s just as worried about how Steve’s fared during their separation as Steve is about him.  The thought is warming, something impossible to glean from the texts they’ve shared, even the ones that haven’t been fraught with what happened.  It’s a little strange to have Tony be so quiet and still.  He’s always so loud, so boisterous, so animated.  Right or wrong, he’s never reserved.

He is now, long after dinner’s done and they’re both sitting silently and watching the tree.  Empty plates and used forks rest on the coffee table.  Tony’s sipping his wine, brown eyes deep and distant, and Steve’s unabashedly watching him.  It feels like a long time slips away like this, the two of them easing back into being near each other, and Steve really starts to worry that he’s changed everything but not for the better, that the fiery emotions of before fueled the kiss but there’s really nothing underlying it.

That’s not the case, of course.  Tony sucks down the rest of his wine and sets the empty glass to the coffee table where all of their dishes are.  Then he turns to Steve, and without a word, he scooches closer and buries himself in Steve’s side.

It’s awkward at first, but only because it’s so unexpected.  Tony never seemed to like touch before, yet here he is, obviously craving it.  It breaks Steve’s heart to wonder how isolated he’s been.  How lonely.  How depressed.  How he’s struggled to carry on with little support.  Steve wraps his arm around him, and Tony sinks into his embrace.  “I really missed you, too,” Tony finally says, and after so much silence, it feels thunderous.  “I was so angry that I couldn’t…”

“It’s alright,” Steve murmurs.  “You had every right to be.”

“And the others…  They’re okay?”

Steve nods.  It feels right and natural to run his hand up and down Tony’s back.  He doesn’t know if that’s because of what he dreamed or because it  _is_ right and natural, but he doesn’t care too much.  “They’re alright.”

“And you’re really okay?”  Steve doesn’t answer at first, thinking of all the hells of the last six months.  He doesn’t want to remember any of it now.  The feel of Tony’s hand on his chest, drifting down over his shirt carefully to his stomach, draws him out of the unpleasant thoughts.  “Where’d they shoot you?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Steve replies instead.  He reaches across and takes Tony’s hand.  “Don’t worry about it.”

Tony grumbles a little before settling.  “All I’ve done.  Worry about you and hate you, in equal measures.”  That could have been off-putting, but Steve isn’t bothered.  Instead it’s kind of comforting, and he smiles as Tony weaves their hands together over his belly, ironically resting them exactly where he was wounded.  “Can’t believe you risked what you did to get back in the country.  Obviously Wilson hasn’t fixed any of your more ridiculous attributes.”

“Not for lack of trying,” Steve replies quietly.

“Ross wants you,” Tony says, and that comes unexpectedly.  His voice is heavy and grave.  Steve closes his eyes.  “He’d do anything to get you.  I…  I screwed up with him.  I should never have trusted him.  You told me, but I didn’t listen, and–”

“Shh,” Steve hushes.  “It’s not your fault, and I don’t want to talk about that.  Not now.”

But Tony keeps going.  It’s obvious his own guilt is driving him.  All this pain he’s never revealed during their text conversations…  Well, maybe it was there, hiding in the subtext, but Steve never noticed.  Now it’s coming out hard, a ragged confession that Steve can’t stop. “He’s on me all the time.  I had to have FRIDAY plant fake information about that flight to New Orleans just to make it look legit so he wouldn’t come after us.  I’ve been trying to keep him off your tail.  I know what you do when you do it, and he’s constantly pushing for intel on your whereabouts, and it’s…  God, I screwed up.  I made such a mistake.”

Steve squeezes his hand.  “You did what you thought was best.”

“I have nightmares about it.”  There’s a great deal of anguish pent up behind those words.  “About Ross getting you.  About you on the Raft.  About him…  Him hurting you.  It’d be my fault if that happened.”

“It won’t,” Steve promises, and he knows that’s an empty oath, but right now it feels full and powerful.

Against his chest, Tony nods.  He rests his palm over the tender areas as he goes silent a moment, and Steve swears he can hear his heart pounding.  Then Tony’s voice twists further.  “I have nightmares about…  About Siberia.  About that, too.  All the time.  I dream about what I did.  What I almost did.  I almost…”  He doesn’t finish.  “The way you looked at me.  I thought you’d…”

“I would never.”

“I know that, but I thought I would never, too.  I thought I was better than that.  A hero.  You were seeing through it.  You were so hurt, so betrayed, and I was so full of shit.”  The words are so soft, broken, twisted in a sob, and Steve’s heart aches hearing them.  “The worst thing is…  I think about it, think about what could have happened…  Sometimes I still feel so angry.  Sometimes I still want to hurt him.”  Tony burrows his head more.  “I’m so screwed up.  I almost murdered your friend because I was upset.  I almost became what we fight so hard to fight.  Evil.  A monster.”

“Tony…”

“How the hell can you ever forgive me for that?”

Steve looks down on him, on the mess of lush brown hair, on the lines of the body pressed close, shaking in barely withheld misery.  He can’t stand it.  He’ll do anything to ease Tony’s pain, Tony who gave him a place and a purpose when he didn’t have one, who’s so smart and giving, who made a mistake, yes, but they all have.  They all have, but the past can’t dictate the future.  They need to talk where they couldn’t before.  They need to be together as they should be.  There needs to be love after so much pain.

He’s here for that reason.  And, in a weird way, he’s here to deliver another message.  He told Tony he loves him.  That came from him, from his heart, from everything he has and wants to give.  But this second, unexpected message?  This one from a wise woman with a heart of gold, wise eyes, and a kitchen full of love.  It’s miracle, really, the way things work sometimes.

So the words come so easily.  Steve drops a kiss into Tony’s hair, rubbing his back in those comforting sweeps.  “You know, someone told me something today that I needed to hear.  I think you need to hear it, too.”  Tony stiffens slightly, but he doesn’t pull away.  Steve goes ahead.  “Don’t trouble yourself over things you can’t change.  Know when to let it be.”  He slides his hand under Tony’s chin and lifts his face.  “And know when to forgive, yourself most of all.”

Tony stares.  Steve smiles.  He feels strong, right, so he cups Tony’s jaw and pulls him into another kiss.  Tony succumbs quickly, sinking into the contact, and opening his mouth.  Steve wasn’t expecting that, wasn’t anticipating at all that he could deserve this, and he’s terrified it will end or that Tony will pull away or that he’s dreaming again, trapped thousands of miles away in another dark corner of the world.

But he’s not, and it doesn’t end.  The kiss gets longer, hotter, hungrier.  Tony’s hands come to his hair, gently threading through and tugging, and Steve closes his eyes and lets himself feel.  Every nerve in his body comes alive.  Things to which he’s numbed himself, want, need, and desire, hum in his blood.  He succumbs to it willingly, slumping down onto to the couch as Tony pushes him, as Tony carefully lays on top of him.  They kiss and kiss, Steve’s fingers slipping under Tony’s shirt to timidly explore the lean muscles of his back, Tony stealing his breath and rolling his body down onto him and stoking the flames that are beginning to burn.  It’s soft and wondrous and perfect.

Tony leans up and looks at him.  Steve can smell his cologne, feel the warmth and strength of his body, see the fire in his eyes.  He looks beautiful.

_Perfect._

“Take what you need,” Steve whispers, caressing Tony’s face until his thumb drives over Tony’s lips.  “I came to give you everything.  I love you.”

Tony does.  The quiet returns, save for soft breaths and tender whispers.  The light from the Christmas tree washes over them both, pure and peaceful.  Outside, it still snows and snows.

Inside, hearts heal.

* * *

Steve wakes up early the next morning. It’s gray with the new day, the light from dawn barely breaching the bedroom. For a while, far longer than he normally can, he drifts in a doze, in nondescript but pleasant dreams.  The serum doesn’t pull him away this time.  He knows he’s comfortable, and he knows he’s safe.  He knows he’s home.

Tony’s here.

Steve feels him first, the reassuring weight of another body next to his. Steve’s got his arms around him, and Tony’s curled into him. Their legs are tangled together. Everywhere Steve can feel him, miles of smooth skin, soft hair tickling his nose, hard lines of joints and bones juxtaposed with soft flesh cuddling close.  Every breath he takes is of Tony, the smell of his cologne still but softened by a touch of sweat and a scent that Steve’s realizing is uniquely his.  Every slow beat of his heart is pronounced and peaceful, because Tony is all around him.

_Home._

Steve opens his eyes to the back of Tony’s head.  Everything is dark yet, but he can tell Tony is still sleeping.  He’s breathing deeply, evenly, chest rising and fall under Steve’s hand.  Steve leans up slightly to look down on him, and, sure enough, his eyes are closed, lashes pressed to skin, lips parted, face lax with serene slumber.  Smiling, Steve settles back down and kisses the back of his head.  Memories from the night before slowly drift across his mind, memories of the argument, yes, but telling Tony the truth after so long and holding him on the couch and letting Tony release his pain and finally kissing, really kissing, and touching and learning each other, fevered caresses and pleasured cries and unimaginable ecstasy…  

He grins a dopey grin.  He had no idea he’d be getting  _that_ for Christmas.

Indulging in the fresh recollections is enough to have him closing his eyes again, this pervasive sense of wholeness consuming him.  It’s so good.  That place in his heart that’s been so empty and aching is full now, full and pulsing with vigor.  Tony gave him everything.  Steve’s never taken what he’s wanted, what he deserves, quite like that.  And he’s never given, not so wholly, like he did.  He’s  _never_  felt like this, completely right in this body, in this place, in this time.  Completely satiated, completely at ease.

_Fill up for when you can’t._

That has him opening his eyes, silencing the quiet hum of contentment inside him.  Just like that, an uncomfortable sense of energy prickles over pleasure-drunk nerves, and he’s leaning up again.   _One night._   That’s all he can have.  That was what Sam said.  He has to go back today.  He has to leave.  It’s not safe for him to stay, not for him and not for Tony.  They can’t be together now.

And a new pain comes rushing in.

But Steve doesn’t let it stop him.  Carefully, so gently, he untangles himself from Tony.  Once he’s sure he didn’t disturb him, he pulls the silken sheets and duvet up around his body.  Then he pads silently to the bathroom, crouching to scoop up his clothes that are scattered around the bedroom floor along the way.  The lights come on the second he steps in, so he closes the door carefully behind him.  

After that it’s a matter of cleaning up, which he does as best he can considering the fact he didn’t bring anything with him.  He washes his hands and face, wets his hair into some semblance of its normal position, swishes out his mouth and generally tries to make himself look presentable.  Then he puts his jeans and shirt back on, though he catches sight of himself in the frankly massive vanity mirror.  His eyes go to the red splotches on his stomach and side where he was shot a few days ago.  They’re still a little sore, but all he can really feel now is Tony.  Tony touching him there carefully, reverently.  Tony kissing.  Tony, so loving and worshipful like he was trying to erase the injuries that he blames himself for.  All their scars, slowly disappearing.

Steve’s so very glad he came.

Smiling, he slips on his socks and then realizes he forgot his shoes, so he tiptoes back out of the bathroom.  Creeping around the bed, he can’t find them at first, but then he spots them near the foot of the mattress under Tony’s pants.  He scoops them up.

“You’re leaving?”

Steve stands quickly to see Tony blinking at him from the bed.  He goes still.  He just stares again, and Tony stares back, and once more he doesn’t know what to say.  “I can’t stay,” he finally replies.  That new pain inside gets sharper.

All the sleepiness in Tony vanishes.  He sits up quickly, the sheets slipping into his lap and revealing all the scars on his chest.  Scars that Steve mapped with his fingers and kissed and worshipped.  Scars that he memorized.  Scars that he wants to heal, too.  There are new scars forming in Tony’s eyes right now.  “You can’t go so soon,” he says, slipping out of bed.  He stumbles a bit, finding his own underwear with no grace, and puts them on, all the while shaking his head.  “No, no.  Steve, no.”

“I can’t stay,” Steve says again, hating the ugly words and the way they make that pain sharper.  “I can’t.”

Tony takes his hand, his arm.  “You can.  It’s alright.  We’ll make it work.”

“Tony–”

“I’ll keep you safe.  I’ll find a way to get the arrest warrants quashed.  I can do it.  I was already thinking Stark Industries has some of the best lawyers in the world on our payroll.  We can do it.”

 _God._   “Tony, please–”

Tony’s eyes are filled with frenzy, with fire, and he’s gripping Steve’s arm tighter and tighter.  “You don’t have to go,” he says again.  “I’ll make it right, I swear.  The Accords are my fault, and I’ll fix it.  That’s what I do: fix things.  So I’ll do it.  I’ll protect you.  Or…  God, I’ll come with you.  Go rogue.  Relocate to another country, where Ross can’t touch us.  We can do anything.  I have the power to make it happen.”

 _No._   “You can’t do that.”

“Steve–”

“I want that,” Steve whispers, pulling Tony close.  His eyes sting with tears, and he doesn’t bother trying to blink them back.  “You have no idea how much I do.  But I can’t bring you down with me, Tony.  I just can’t.  Ross will crucify you.”

Emphatically Tony shakes his head.  “I don’t care.  I have been bending to his whims for months, doing everything he’s asked of me even when I know it’s not right, even when I know he’s using me to try to get to you, and I just don’t care anymore!  I’m not going to let him hurt you or take you from me.  Not anymore.”  Tony comes even closer, eyes feverish, words lightning quick.  “So let’s go.  We can retire.  We can find an island somewhere and hide out.  Drink until we can’t anymore.  Eat cracked crab and clams.  Have our next Christmas on a beach.”

Steve sighs and shakes his head.  The allure of what Tony’s offering…  He can’t let himself think about it.  He can’t.  “We can’t run, Tony.  We can’t quit.”  Tony’s face falls, even if he must have known it’s impossible.  “And I need you here.  I need to know someone good is leading this side of things.  I need to know that you’re still protecting us, protecting me.”  And now Tony grimaces, looking away like he doesn’t want to hear something he’s sure is true.  Steve grips his shoulders.  “You’ve still got one hand on the wheel.  Like Nat said back before everything fell apart.  That’s more important than you know.”

Tony shakes his head.  His emotions are getting the better of him again.  “I don’t want to be alone, Steve.  God, don’t leave me alone!”

Steve pulls him close.  He wraps him tight in his arms, taking another breath after breath of him, holding him as tightly as he dares.  “You’re not alone,” he swears.  He shakes his head against Tony’s shoulder.  “You’re not.  You got me, same as you did before.  If you call me, if you need me, I’ll be there.  I’ll come.  I promise.  Like this time.  Any time.   _Every_  time.”

“Goddamn it,” Tony moans.  “I can’t do this.  It’s too hard to let you go again.”

“I’m not  _leaving_  you,” Steve insists.  “You understand?  I’ll always be with you.  You are  _not_  alone.”

Tony finally looks into Steve’s eyes.  Steve doesn’t look away.  He stays firm, because that’s what Tony needs.  That’s what he needs, too.  Faith.  He knows he’s right.  He can’t stay.  Tony can’t come with him.  There are duties and laws and responsibilities separating them.  That distance again.  They’ve probably complicated something so much worse than it was before, but that’s okay.  “We’re strong enough to do this,” Steve murmurs.  “That asshole who thought he broke us?  Tore down our empire?  The one who’s hunting us now?  They only brought us together  _more_ , because I’m here, and you let me in, and we can forgive each other.  Right?  Tony, if we can do this, we can do anything.”

A moment passes.  It simultaneously feels infinite and too short.  Then Tony heaves a sigh, rolling his wet eyes a little and shaking his head.  His lips turn into a grin.  “You and your motivational speeches.”

Relief pours over Steve in a warm balm.  He grins, too.  “You love my motivational speeches.”  Then he sits on the bed and pulls his sneakers on, pushing onward because he can’t afford to stop.  “You always have.”

Tony shakes his head, still smiling.  “Sometimes.”

Steve springs back up to his feet, sticking his arms into his jacket and getting it on, and then they’re looking at each other again.  That awkward tension from the night before, from all those times before this, threatens to creep back between them.

They don’t let it.  Tony grabs Steve’s jacket and pulls him close.  Their mouths meet in a deep kiss, and it goes on, hands grasping and senses feasting and hearts pounding.  Neither of them can bring himself to end it.  The thought of pulling away hurts, hurts so much, and Steve can’t make himself do it.

But he has to.  He always does.  He gives Tony a kiss on his forehead and then lets him go.  Then he’s walking toward the bedroom door.

“Wait.”

He stops and turns.  Tony’s following him.  “Let me get your shield,” he says, breathless and heading towards the door.  “I, um… I have it down in the workshop.  Wanted to keep it close.  That’s stupid, huh?  You should take it.”

“No,” Steve says.

Tony stops, confused.  “No?”

Steve shakes his head.  “I can’t use it right now.  I can’t have it.  So you keep it safe.”  Tony’s face falls for a second, like this would be the resolution to something else that’s eaten at him over these last six months.  Then he realizes the words Steve’s left unspoken:  _I trust you._   Steve sees the understanding work its way through his eyes.  The gratitude.  The appreciation.  He can’t resist a final kiss, coming over and cupping Tony’s face.  It’s soft, sweet.  A promise.  Promising one another that it will be fine and they’ll see each other again.  And maybe, again, it’s not a promise that can be kept, but they make it all the same.

Because that’s what has to be done.

Then Steve walks away.  This is going to be it.

Or not.  “Merry Christmas,” Tony calls quietly.

“Merry Christmas,” Steve says back.

“Call me?” Tony asks.

“Of course,” Steve replies at the door, digging in his pocket for the flip phone.  He doesn’t turn around, lifting it up for Tony to see.

Tony snorts a laugh.  “Ridiculous.”

“Yep.”

“Steve?”

Steve’s out in the hallway.  “What?”

“I love you, too.”

A huge smile breaks out on Steve’s face, and he keeps walking.  He knew that already of course, but it’s always nice to be right.

* * *

A few days later, Steve and Sam are back on the run.  Nat’s rejoined them. She’s found the tales from their epic disaster of a mission to infiltrate the US and deliver Sam as a present to his mother endlessly entertaining, and Sam’s been all-in on embarrassing the life out of Steve.  He goes on and on about the details of their “mission”, about Steve deliriously caroling and babbling and fishing in toilet water for fake passports and getting the both of them arrested.  Good stuff.  She laughs and enjoys it all, winking at Steve like she knows the rest of the story that Sam doesn’t cover, that Steve visited Tony and made peace with him and finally told him the truth. Maybe she does know, and maybe she knew the truth all along, that Tony’s the reason Steve’s smiling and finally at ease with this world they’re in and the life they’re leading.  That’s okay if she does, because nothing seems so difficult and bleak now, and Steve just feels…

At home.

But, as things always do in their world, the peace doesn’t last. Sam managed to smuggle a couple bottles of champagne out of United States, in addition to all his mother’s goodies, and on New Year’s Eve, the three of them are holed up in some crappy safehouse in India. They’re gathered around a little campfire, about to break out the bubbly, as Sam puts it, and enjoy some of his mother’s pralines and thumbprint cookies made with her jam and peanut butter kisses and sugary delights. There’s so much love in these simple sweets, so much wisdom, all the way from New Orleans to New York to here. Connecting lives and hearts and hopes. They’re laughing now , high off of sugar and drink and good times with each other. It’s nearly midnight when Nat’s pulling out her phone. The joy slides off her face, and all she has to do is look at Steve for it to be obvious that they need to work.

“Aw, hell no,” Sam groans.  “No, no, no.”

“Same old, same old,” Steve says.  He can’t help but tease as he stands and packs up the remains of his meal.  “The bad guy scum of the world–”

“–doesn’t care what day it is,” Sam grumbles. “Yeah, yeah.”  He stands, too, chugging down the champagne he poured into a cracked mug.  “Should old acquaintance be forgot and blah blah blah.  I never know the words.”

“And never thought upon,” Nat sings, grabbing her guns and loading them.  “The flames of love extinguished and fully past and gone.”

Sam scowls.  “You always gotta one up me.”  She grins sweetly.  “What the hell is an auld lang syne, anyway?”

“You got me.”  She holsters everything and turns to Steve.  “What do you say to kicking some terrorist ass to ring in the New Year, Cap?  And giving Ross a run for his money.”

“Sounds good to me,” Steve declares, and he knocks Sam on the shoulder as they head out of their little, dilapidated house.  They walk toward where they stashed the quinjet, this time in abandoned warehouse in a very rundown area on the outskirts of Calcutta.

They don’t make it more than a foot outside before Nat stops.  She goes stiff, and all the joking disappears like it was never there.  Her eyes are cold and sharp as she stares at her phone.  “Jet’s systems says we have incoming.  Drones.  Two of them, armed.”

Fear suddenly squeezes Sam’s face, and Nat draws her gun, searching the night sky, and Steve’s about to order them back inside the house to hide and take cover when his own phone buzzes.  The flip phone.  Surprised, Steve pulls it out and reads the text.  Then he smiles.  “It’s fine.”

Sam frowns, still afraid.  “What?”

The drones appear overhead, descending and zooming toward them, and both Sam and Nat are clearly on the verge of panic.  Nothing happens, though, other than the large machines stopping above their location and hovering a moment, just long enough, in fact, to drop two large boxes.  The crates float down, hovering on a propulsion system not dissimilar from Iron Man’s.  It’s remarkable watching it.  Once they are secure on the ground right in front of the warehouse, the drones rise again and fly away.

Steve can feel Sam and Nat exchange questioning, tense looks.  That dismay and dread only gets worse as he very boldly walks back out into the night through the yard in front of the warehouse where the boxes are.  Clearly stamped on each big, gray crate are the words  _Stark Industries._   Steve taps the side of one where a control panel is, and top opens with a hiss.

“What the…” Sam whispers, coming up beside him.  Nat follows, hesitantly holstering her gun.  Her eyes are wide as saucers.

Inside the crates, there are supplies.   _Tons_ of supplies.  Medical kits, food, new weapons, and ammunition.  Clothes and boots and toiletries and water.  Boxes inside boxes, some which adorned with the Avengers logo.  Nat pulls the top off one.  “This is…  The jet’s damaged stealth system…”

“A new suit?” Sam gasps, reaching into the other crate.  “Holy…  What…”  He beams, pulling the Falcon flight pack out.  It’s brand new, glimmering in the faint light from the warehouse behind them.  Astonished, he shakes his head.  “I don’t get it.  I never told him…”

Steve looks down at the flip phone and reads the message again.   _“Tracked your location.  Sorry Santa came a little late._ _Ho, ho, ho._ _Happy New Year, and c_ _all me when you can_ _._ _Love, T.”_

Sam’s grinning from ear to ear, holding his new suit close like a prized possession.  Like a kid on Christmas morning, even if Christmas is a week past and thousands of miles away.  He glances at Nat, who’s still marveling at the new weapons, at the supplies to do maintenance on the quinjet, at everything they’ve been gifted.  She sputters, and Sam laughs, throwing an arm around Steve’s shoulders.  “Man, I told you to make sending you there worth it, but I had no idea.  Wow.  I gotta deliver you home to him more often.”

Steve chuckles, too, so warm inside.  For a moment he stares at the sky, at the stars, and thinks of the light in Tony’s eyes.  Then he quickly types back a message and hits send, this time without a shred of doubt.   _“_ _Thanks, Tony.  Love you, too._ _”_

**THE END**


End file.
